


On the Balcony

by the_authors_exploits



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff ??, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fill, expansion to a scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An expansion on the breakfast scene from Red Hood And The Outlaws issue 8<br/>Prompt fill from my ace--jace blog</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Balcony

**Author's Note:**

> Again...one day I will learn the html code to link things...today is not that day...

“You realize Bruce **_isn’t_** here.”

It’s a rapid answer, strong and unapologetic; and that open expression, inviting hand indicating the chair across from him. He’s being stupid, which is kind of funny because Tim is supposed to be the smartest in the Batclan, but here he is inviting his murderous predecessor to breakfast. So Jason warns him.

“I…wasn’t always the nicest guy to you, either, Drake.”

And he does a speech, the devil! _“You came back to life. After being murdered. That was a lot to digest. I get it. Maybe we all will someday.”_ Accepting, something warm that Jason would like to call love if he were a mushy pansy, and wholeheartedly piercing all of Jason’s armor.

He crosses the space between the edge of the balcony and Tim’s breakfast table, pulls the chair out, makes a quip about Alfred’s waffles; Tim responds easily, like they’ve lived these memories together, reminiscing on late mornings after patrols waking to the smell of baked dough and syrup.

They move on from there, to other memories, as if they’ve done this before.

“Ever slide down the bannister?” Jason asks, cramming a piece of toast into his mouth.

Tim looks up from the bacon platter, raises a brow. “Not that you can prove.”

Jason laughs.                                   

Tim reaches for the jug of orange juice to refill his cup, hovers over Jason’s in question; he waves, watches the juice splash in the half empty cup. Tim sets the jug down and speaks. “Ever read the entire manor library?”

“You kidding? I had half of it in my bedroom!”

“I’d say same, but leatherbacks and the Kindle are hardly comparable.”

For a moment Jason is jealous that he didn’t get to have books at the touch of his fingertips when he was growing up; then he realizes he has a second chance at life, and he wonders if he should stop by BestBuy on his way home. “Where’d you hide out: vacant wing of the manor, the chandelier over the entryway, or the roof?”

The chandelier was Dick’s place; Tim doesn’t have the heart to tell his company he hid in the cave, at the foot of a dusty glass case, so he smiles and shrugs. “I didn’t have a set hiding place; what about you?” He doesn’t have to ask; he knows Jason’s affinity for heights.

“The roof; it was fun, I did some parkour while I was on the streets and used that to get to the roof. A different path every time.”

Tim hums; he spreads butter on a muffin, offers half to Jason. It’s corn muffin, Jason’s favorite, and he eagerly snatches it from Tim, albeit with a suspicious gleam to his eyes that fades as soon as he bites into it.

“I love these.”

Tim smiles. “I always preferred blueberry.”

Jason pulls a sour face. “What’s wrong with you?”

And Tim laughs, throws his head back and laughs, because who would have thought Jason could pull such a face? Jason the Red Hood, scourge of Gotham, could act like such a child. “I don’t know, Jason.”

They lapse into a silence, calm and understanding, as the food disappears from their plates. Tim watches Jason, Jason watches Tim, both when the other isn’t looking. Jason eats hunched over his plate, on the edge of his seat, both hands poised over the plate for food, sometimes food in both hands—a bite of eggs skewered on a fork and a slice of toast. Tim is more poised, back straight, elbows off the table and elegant fingers cutting the waffle into perfect sized bites; he eats like he has the luxury, but Jason isn’t stung by that—he’s intrigued.

“Nice place you’ve got, Timmy.”

Tim smiles. “Thank you; there’s a lot of room, kind of lonely.”

Jason hums, scrapes his fork against his plate to gather the crumbs. “Better than tripping over your own feet.”

Tim looks out over the city, wonders what safehouse Jason is holed up in now, before turning back to the near empty table; he’ll have to clean up soon. Breakfast is almost over, Jason’s adam’s apple moving as he gulps the rest of his juice, but Tim doesn’t want it to end. It’s a moment where they are equals, where fighting is not a possibility, where they can forget rivalries and family issues and villains lurking in dark alleys and their nightmares.

But all things have to come to an end, so Jason leans away from the table; he’s content, happy in a way, and he looks over the plates and platters and dirty utensils. “Well, I should probably head out.” The chair scrapes against the balcony; he stretches over his head before grabbing his helmet. “Thank you for the food; ‘preciate the company and all that shit.”

Tim’s hands are clenched tight against his pants leg, hidden by the table; he wants to keep him here, for a while longer, away from everything awful in the city below. “Why don’t you stay?”

The helmet is on, but not cinched, when Jason freezes in his movements.

“It was a late breakfast, there isn’t much patrolling to do today,” Tim doesn’t mention that he knows Jason has already visited the drug lords yesterday and doesn’t need to check in for a while. “Stay for lunch?”

There’s no pull of the city at his back, no voices calling him beyond the balcony; everything is quiet and Jason wants to say yes. He removes his helmet, sets it down again. “Suppose it’s only polite to wash my dishes anyhow, huh?”

He says yes to dinner too.


End file.
